The Shadow
by iKloudz
Summary: Legolas ponders his life and the lives of his people under the Shadow of Mirkwood. The Silvans were never meant to fight but now, to fight means death, but to not fight means death, too. Do his people have the strength to continue? Does he?


**The Shadow**

Our beloved home is fading so impossibly fast that within the eternal life of an elf, it is incomprehensible. I have fought with every last breath that I could muster, using every tactic, every edge, every stick and stone, blade and shield. Yet how can I fight that which has hounded us for centuries? What more do we have now that we did not have then? The Shadow has stretched whilst our strength has waned – for who are we to stand in Its way?

The malice is so powerful, I have felt Its malevolent touch, caressing my skin. It makes me shudder. It makes me sick. My people – those whom the Shadow has held – rarely survive. More fall to madness each passing day. We drop like flies to the Shadow, only to be swept up and eaten by the very spiders who haunt our steps. Every time I step within our Healing Halls, all I hear is screaming and all I smell is death. I can barely look upon my own people without imagining them dying. And die they would, for their home. Such is the strength of my beloved people, that they will not give up their home, even if they must hold it by the skin of their teeth. Yet in doing so they suffer, and it breaks my heart to see such happy, forest dwelling folk, learning to fight, learning to kill.

That is what they have become. Killers. That is was _I_ have become. Now, my people learn to kill, young, when they should be enjoying their youth, fall to poison when they should be drinking and making merry, cut down by blades when they should be dancing their deadly dances. They make time for cheer, but it is few and far between and nobody can relieve the tension which hangs in the air and upon our shoulders, threatening us. The exhaustion can be seen in the eyes of every single one of my people, every single one, and no matter how many festivals and celebrations we hold to keep morale up, nothing can change that.

We are not accustomed to failure and retreat, yet failed we have and retreated thrice now. Perhaps it is a hopeless fight. They do not say it aloud but it is in my people's eyes and how can I blame them? Much have we suffered and all we wish for is some reprieve. My father is hard pressed, as am I. We have spread ourselves thin, worried ourselves sick just thinking of it, night after night, death after death. There is no light on the horizon for us. No hope.

I have stayed strong for many years, centuries even, holding hope yet here, in the company of only myself, I give myself to despair freely. Perhaps it is not right but what else am I to do? We find no help from the others – they do not listen to our plight. They think us as flighty Silvan folk, with our heads in the clouds, jumping at shadows. But the Shadow we jump at is greater than they could dream of. I wish there was a way to have them see. To have them appreciate our sacrifice, the lives given by my people to hold against this Shadow – the reason they are safe. Because I do believe with all my heart that if my home were to fall and our people to fail, Middle Earth would not be safe. The other elven realms would fall, ring or no ring. And then they would miss us. Then they would regret not lending us help.

Alas! I shall show no prejudices, for it is not my way. Whilst these bitter thoughts linger within my mind, they must stay deep within my mind and my heart. I cannot let myself be seen having these beliefs, for I am a Prince and my people look to me for guidance and I will not lead them astray. The Shadow is our true enemy. That is all.

My father holds resentment for the Noldor and I understand, truly. For he lived in Doriath of old, knew of Fëanor and his sons, their deeds of Kinslaying. He holds anger for their crafts, (curséd things, he calls them), their Silmaril, their Rings of Power, their Palantír. He recalls Dagorlad with great sorrow, so much so that I do not think he even has the heart to blame anyone for it, he only continues cursing the Noldor and their arrogance, for if they had not been so thirsty for knowledge, perhaps none of this would have happened. But who are we to know if that is true?

And so it is, that much as I hold bitterness and envy for the Noldor, I cannot bring myself to show it and certainly not to act upon it, for surely not all of them are as their ancestors. Besides, my people have better things to do, more pressing matters to look at than let their feelings for the Noldor fester.

That is the strength of my people, their courage, their willingness and their love for their home. Their steady acceptance that they have been appointed to hold the Shadow, by some unseen force, and they will hold it firm and not let themselves come to distraction. To some, it may only be a copse of trees, but to us, it is home and we shall defend it. Silvan and Sindar alike. No matter how much the numbers of the Shadow grow, or how ours fade, we stand and fight because our instincts will not less us take it lying down.

The same instinct within me screams to keep going. For though few we are, we will always be stronger than It, if not in body then at least in mind. We are fighting for something greater. It cannot defeat us. It can chew us and spit us out. It can smash us to pieces. It can stomp upon us in rage. But it cannot defeat us. It will not defeat us nor will we allow ourselves to be defeated.

We are each and every one of us Silvan at heart. We are Silvan and we are strong. We will fight.


End file.
